


Bits and Pieces Everywhere

by ryssabeth



Series: Novelesque Diary [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a bit of his life on all these pages and Enjolras thinks he might have some reading to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bits and Pieces Everywhere

“You’re making a baseless assumption,” Grantaire says over his shoulder as he fumbles with the lock on his front door (something that he wouldn’t be doing if he were paying attention, but apparently eye-contact is very important for him to get the point across). “You assume that _all_ people don’t want subjugation.”

The door pops open when he finally gets it unlocked and Enjolras rolls his eyes at the back of his head. “So, what _you’re_ saying, is that some people enjoy oppression.”

“Not so much enjoy,” Grantaire defends, dropping his school belongings near the front door where a stack of children’s books sit, “as it gives them less things to think about. And by no means am I saying _all_ people or even _most_ people enjoy subjugation—but there are those in the middle class who are content with the leftovers from the wealthy that do nothing because they live well enough, and they look down upon the poor when the poor want to rise up—and it’s their lack of participation that dooms little rebellions.”

Enjolras sets his things next to Grantaire’s trying to keep their bags separate. “That’s a very harsh assumption of human nature.”

“It’s a _true_ assumption of human nature. If you’re not the poor, generally you don’t care about the poor,” Enjolras crouches to reach for one of the children’s books— _Goodnight Moon_ with a variant cover—not because he’s disinterested but because his attention as shifted to wonder if, perhaps, some of these ideas made it into books made for children. There’s just so much to read, to _know_ —

“ _Don’t_ touch the books,” and when he looks up, he finds Grantaire regarding him with an arched brow and a slightly argumentative cock to the hip. It would be marginally more threatening if he weren’t coated in red paint ( _“don’t look at me like that, I was helping this girl carry paints and—“_ ) from his head to the knees of his jeans. “I have to shower,” obviously, there’s paint in his _hair_ , “and if you touch _anything_ , I will know.”

( _“There’s a method to this madness,”_ Grantaire had said upon Enjolras’ first, rather abrupt, visit to his flat. Enjolras can believe it, a little.)

“Of course,” Enjolras tries to keep the challenge out of his face, “I’ll just sit on the couch and not breathe until you’re done imitating the Royal Court of the French Revolution.”

“I thought it was a pretty good costume, but there you go, dashing my hopes and dreams,” Grantaire takes two steps back and says, “But if you can manage not to breathe for fifteen minutes, I will take you to an opera tonight—there’s one showing downtown.”

“Are you making a judgment call about my musical preferences?” ( _Which one?_ The rest of his brain asks.)

“Think of it as an intense game of twenty-questions.” And with that, Grantaire is gone, turning right down the hallway, walking down until almost the dead-end before taking a left to the bathroom.

When he hears the water start, Enjolras stands from his crouch, bypassing the living room where the sofa is and wandering slowly through the stack of books. The first time he’d been here, it had been breathtaking—all the books, in hallways and corners and closets. On counters and tables and appliances. And still, the effect of such an extensive collection of books is no less impressive, and Enjolras grabs for one at the corner of the hallway that stretches to the right—where the bathroom and laundry room are—and to the left—where there are two bedrooms and a closet.

The title is crossed out—full tilt—in black marker, with _Inspirational Stories that Totally Disregard the People Who Can’t Do These Things (Unabridged)_ written on the cover instead. Judging by what he knows of Grantaire, which is, admittedly, a little extensive from personal readings, this was probably a _Chicken Soup for the Soul_ book—and checking the spine confirms it.

He flips to the inside cover, catching pencil scratches and doodles—doodles that look lovingly crafted, but anything smaller than a corner of a page is instantly a _doodle_ , no matter how much detail is put in it. He flips further catching scribbles under titles ( _oh please spare me the details of overcoming your husband’s death by seeing his ghost_ ) and in the margins ( _yes because God helped you see the light why didn’t I think about it before_ ) and under page numbers ( _is this book over yet why did I pick it up at a used bookstore I would have been so much better off without it_ ).

The last page is scrawled with _Cosette’s father has a more inspirational story than all of these people combined and I_ still _don’t believe in miracles. Good show though,_ Chicken Soup _. Good show._

(Enjolras coughs around a laugh that would have been too loud, imagining the absolutely terrible mockery of an English accent he had to have produced when he wrote that.)

He shuts the book—six minutes spent—and places it back exactly how he found it on the stack closest to him.

And then he takes the left, heading toward where the two bedrooms are. The second visit to Grantaire’s flat had earned him a glimpse of his bedroom—stacked with more books than looked healthy to keep in one place, though the ones of particular interest to him are the ones pressed against the night stand, something that he’d asked about and only gotten the customary response of _nosiest person alive, you_.

Grantaire’s bedroom door is ajar—he lives alone, it’s only to be expected—and Enjolras nudges it open with the toe of his sneaker, taking a few slow steps in until he reaches the stack of books at the nightstand’s base. Upon the nightstand, a CD sits—Jimmy Buffett’s _Margaritaville_ , the cover signed by the American musician, and a little note sits atop it— _remind me to thank Cosette later and also wonder at her sense of humour_. The stack of books garners his attention next. _The Affirmation of Life: Nietzsche on Overcoming Nihilism_ is the topmost book, followed second by _The Banalization of Nihilism: Twentieth-Century Responses to Meaninglessness._

Enjolras looks between the two and grabs the _Nietzche_ piece, taking it with him to the living room, adjusting the bedroom door on his way out.

After all, Grantaire will know if Enjolras touches anything.

Perhaps that is, in fact, the point.

He takes a seat on the couch—eight minutes down out of fifteen—and grabs for a pencil flipping the book open and knowing, instantly, but the way the writing tilts downward, that this is one of Grantaire’s less-than-sober literary conquests.

 _Nietz was not a fan of Nihilism,_ Grantaire had written, the word Nihilism having been erased after the fact and probably respelled, _and basically he said it was a form of depression before depression was even relly a thing—_ there’s a lot of erasure on the introduction he’s written and Enjolras can only imagine what, exactly, had needed fixing. _But it’s more a philosophy, I think, than something you can’t shake off._

_And so it begins._

_Time for booze. More booze, anyway._

Eleven minutes into Grantaire’s shower and he’s only about five pages into the analysis of _Overcoming Nihilism_ , because there are scribbled and anecdotes and unintelligible ramblings about life and its meaning. Or, rather, it’s lack thereof.

_no but actually nihilism isn’t som bulshit thte way nietzvhe likes to write it, sometimes he says things rite but not always n. ok like if people did actually see the way the world worked and how mhc it really does goryify the vicious anad dominate everyone else they’d be nihilists too_

_it’s only coinisidence that nihilism is linked to depression_

_the wrld isn’t a happy place_

_fuck I need a nother drink_

Enjolras brackets these murmurings, these not-always-coherent pieces of Grantaire’s brain and writes his own analysis, his own deconstruction of the man behind the words, and has to stop midsentence when the water shuts off and the flat goes eerily quiet for a moment before movement is heard from the bathroom.

The pencil is placed back on the end table when the bathroom door opens and the book is tucked under one of the sofa pillows when Grantaire returns to the living room—though his footsteps had made their way to the bedroom and back before his arrival.

His hair is damp and curls are everywhere—free of paint—and he’s wearing a forest-green sweater over faded jeans, sneakers already on his feet.

“I was unsuccessful in trying not to breathe for fifteen minutes,” Enjolras says casually—hopes he looks casual too, because he’d rather not be here when Grantaire finds his book missing. Or misplaced. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine, even heavenly spectres have their limitations. I elected that, should you fail your trail, I’m still going to take you to the opera. So, huphup, starts at six-thirty and there should also be food. We’ve got the time.” Grantaire reaches into his back pocket, waving two tickets gently in the air as Enjolras stands—and he is, decidedly, impressed. (He’d figured it was bluster and that they were going to stay in and discuss the finer points of democratic ideology.)

Grantaire holds open the door to his flat, following Enjolras out before locking his door, tucking his keys into his right pocket. “So, opera?” Enjolras leads the way out of the complex, waiting until Grantaire falls in step beside him before he continues down the street. “Where _did_ you get that idea?”

A grin precedes the response. “I asked Combeferre what kind of music you liked since he knew you longer. He came back the next day when he switched shifts and handed me a CD of operatic music.”

This answer isn’t entirely what he expected. (He could have very well said he’d noticed something—perhaps recognised a hummed tune, and yet he didn’t.) “You don’t even think of lying, do you? I honestly had no idea what you were going to say, but that wasn’t it.”

Grantaire snorts and shrugs. “No. Why would I lie? That just makes me look like a giant asshat if Combeferre told you, and besides, it’s easier to answer a question than think up an entire possible _excuse_ for a question. I’m lazy—it’s a curse.”

(It’s no wonder then that everyone had liked Grantaire so much—and if Combeferre’s approval is any indication, because that’s what that CD was, Grantaire has a place here, regardless of his attitude.)

“Ah yes, laziness, the bane of any student’s existence.”

“More like my whole _life_ , prior to student-dom. Couldn’t steal a cookie without my sister finding out—because I told her. Like an idiot.” Enjolras almost laughs at the look of indignation all over Grantaire’s face, a wrinkle starting in his nose and twisting down his lips. “Ugh.”

“A tragedy.”

“Right?” He releases a sigh that slumps his shoulders forward under the weight of honesty. “Also, question.”

“It’s very likely I’ll have an answer for you. Shoot.”

“You said that we’ve been on dates. And are therefore dating?” Enjolras catches Grantaire’s glance, and the other man looks away.

“I do recall saying such a thing.”

“Okay. Okay, awesome.”

It is then that Enjolras’ fingers fold around the hand placed in his own, and a balloon of warmth pops within in, stretching from his lungs to his fingertips.

“So,” he says, even though his throat is constricting around a feeling that’s difficult to name, “what are we seeing, exactly?”

“That’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait.”

(Enjolras almost wants to shove the look of satisfaction off of his face.

But he doesn’t.

Obviously.)

-

Worse dates have been had, certainly, and Grantaire is significantly pleased with the way this one turned out. Sure—yes, it’s not like he has expectations, not really, because the likelihood of anything resembling bliss befalling him are horrendously low. But—still—it was a good date, made swell by the show, even better because he got a kiss.

Good date. Good day.

(And the his seams are stretched to bursting, waiting for the moment where anything and everything will go wrong, like the world being ripped out from under his feet.)

He shuts the front door of his flat behind him, straightening the mussed pillows on the couch and picking up a few stray pencils, before catching sight of a book corner, barely concealed by the now-readjusted pillow.

He drops the pencils on the coffee table—the end table is looking a little full anyway—and pulls the book out from underneath the pillow. And instantly he knows how _The Affirmation of Life_ had gotten to this place on the sofa.

( _Enjolras_ , he thinks, a cross between terrified-stung-and-hopeful, _is literally the nosiest person on Earth and that is comparing him to Eponine and she knows_ everything _._ )

He flips through the first few pages, finding his own cramped writing, listing to the right, coupled with script he is unfamiliar with—but only because he’s never really seen Enjolras write.

What he reads makes his fingers itch—weather to write a rebuttal or paint, he isn’t exactly sure, but he reads until there isn’t anymore (cut off midsentence, _that dick, writing while I was indisposed_ ) and shuts the book, tucking it under his arm and going to his room.

He ends up painting, a field of stars, with one burst of light at the bottom, a start going nova, a new system being build out of gas and dust—at least that’s how he thinks it works. (That knowledge is courtesy of Sci-Fi novels, where most of his literary drawings go.)

Two texts are his only pause in painting— **Apollo:** thanks for tonight _followed by_ your taste in opera isn’t as lacking as your taste in literature.

He laughs—and the burst of light gets bigger as he works with a brush to catch the shape.

( _All of this could very well be true,_ Enjolras had written, _maybe, if people on their own weren’t inherently valuable._

 _But it must also be considered_ , he had continued, _that while all people are inherently valuable, some are valuable not just because they are human, but because they bring something bright and different and conflicting with other people—they cause new thoughts, new feelings, new ideas, and it is those people—_

He’d stopped, presumably upon Grantaire’s return.

He wants to ask how that little dribble of words ends.

But, personally, he’s always found that reading the story is easier than going straight to the end—and, besides.

He’d really rather not be disappointed.)


End file.
